FATHOMED

As he walked into the dark room, Legs swollen like an old monumental doom, The source of which was not in the legs but between, I presume , Excavated within the inflammatory and painless fume. Breaking all norms, amidst all tantrum, Unearthed that treasure beyond pleasure in its native form. Only a toss of coin, was I left with to decide the fate of the groin, Then, there it was, the dance of the filarial worm, Trying to escape its prison bubble of term. Caught red handed by the eyes of its nemesis, a grown sperm.

PRMDR